


Animal Skins

by AeonDelirium, Quarkitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarkitty/pseuds/Quarkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~ “Ned Stark’s bastard.” There was a lilt to Bolton’s voice, pain or just loose teeth, and, gritting his own in half a snarl, Jon hoped that it was both. Bolton, he reminded himself, and the thought almost settled the bile in his throat. <i>Not Snow. Not like me.</i> ~</p>
<p>Finally, there is to be justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Skins

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chapter experiment written alternately by me (AeonDelirium) and Quarkity! We have no idea where exactly it will lead, but after what we were treated to on the show with ep9, Ramsay/Jon hate sex simply has to happen. Our story is set in the bookverse rather than the show though. Tags will be added as we progress. We hope you enjoy!

Castle Black did not have dungeons. The Night’s Watch did not make or hold prisoners. There were several low-ceilinged holding cells for brothers awaiting judgement, or to detain those made rowdy by wine and ale until they sobered up.  
There was no steep winding stair, no slow descent into darkness, nothing to set the mood for this encounter. Jon stepped from the busy courtyard past the two men flanking the door, over the threshold and into the monster’s lair.  
For it was undeniably his lair, shackled though he was to his chair. The air was heavy with his aroma, not quite a stench. It was an animal smell of salt and musk … and blood.  
  
The Bastard looked up. _Bastard._ A jolt went through Jon as the word came to the forefront of his mind, bastard. Just like him. Bastard. He had used it as his armour, accepted it and made it his, refused King Stannis’ offer, had _become_ the Bastard, –  
“Ned Stark’s bastard.” There was a lilt to Bolton’s voice, _pain or just loose teeth,_ and, gritting his own in half a snarl, Jon hoped that it was both. _Bolton,_ he reminded himself, and the thought almost settled the bile in his throat. _Not Snow. Not like me._  
“Aye,” he replied. “I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”  
“Fancy that.” The man coughed feebly, chains rattling as his limbs pulled on them. He was an unsightly creature of bulging muscle and coarse features, made uglier by the tangles in his hair and the dirt on his face. Jon found he did not care. He had seen worse than dirt and scabs north of the wall, and compared to some of the giants, Bolton was almost a comely man. He clenched his jaw before the thought could summon a smile to his face, but Bolton must have seen it in his eyes, for he answered with a face-splitting grin of his own. His teeth were very white save for a few spots of pinkish froth.  
  
“Trust the Starks to find the biggest pile of frozen shit they can get their hands on and claim dominion over it.” Bolton laughed, but the laugh turned into another cough, a wet and wheezy one, and he spat a lump of bloody phlegm to the floor. Jon let his eyes flick over him, scanning the cuts and bruises he could see and the way the man held himself hunched over, likely protecting a cracked rib or two. _But he’s not dying, not yet._ No, Jon knew what it meant to die. Almost, his hand went to his chest and stomach, where, tightly bandaged, his injuries were still healing. A wave of annoyance passed over him when he saw the prisoner’s eyes dart to his flinching hand as he recovered from his coughing fit. The man was observant if not clever. His gaze met Jon’s, and for a brief moment he felt a chill creep up his spine beneath his furs and leathers.  
“Speaking of shit,” Bolton said, drawing in a rattling breath. His expression brightened with an expectant smile.  
“I want my Reek.”  
  
_Reek._ Jon’s muscles tightened. Oh, he had heard of the creature. He’d listened to reports about his prisoner before he went to see him, and without fail they’d all made sure to mention Lord Bolton’s serving man. If he could be called a man at all. He had known him once, in another life and by another name. Jon hated himself for the weakness in his knees as he thought of Theon’s handsome face and tried to imagine it, gaunt and toothless, broken, tried to imagine his healthy lean body, twisted and mutilated, his fingers that had been so nimble plucking bowstrings and the laces of a serving girl alike. But Theon had turned his cloak. Killed his brothers. Forsaken his chance at forgiveness. Jon straightened.  
  
“And I want my sister.”  
“Oh.” Bolton exhaled, tilting his head. The mocking smile never left his face. “Already we have so much in common, Lord Commander.” He paused, drawing another deep breath. He seemed to have some difficulty breathing, Jon noted with grim satisfaction. He had sent three good men to their deaths with his butcher’s blows. It was only fair that they had left their mark on him in turn.  
“This pile of frozen shit would be entirely more bearable with my sweet lady wife to warm my bed at night.”  
  
Jon was on him before his own movements had registered in his brain. The back of the chair cracked and splintered as it hit the ground beneath their combined weight, and the air went out of both of them in grunts and groans. Straddling the prisoner, Jon grabbed a fistful of matted hair in one hand as he drew the glove from the other with his teeth and tossed it aside with a jerk of his head. It was a thing the wildlings had taught him – in battle, a frostbitten fingertip was worth the bony impact of a gloveless hand.  
  
The first punch hit home with a satisfying crunch and a jolt of pain up his arm that he chose to ignore. Bolton’s head snapped to one side, tearing loose a few strands of dark hair. Almost immediately, blood began to gush from his nose and over his lips, painting them scarlet. His pale eyes, misted over by the sheer force of the impact, slowly swam back to focus on his attacker, but Jon did not want to meet his gaze. Instead, he hit again, high on the cheekbone this time, eliciting a groan. Another one in the teeth, to the ear, on the brow, the chin, the sick sounds of bone on flesh on flesh on bone echoing through the chamber together with Jon’s grunts of exertion and a thin, drawn-out wail from the prisoner.  
  
It was some short time before the strength of his arm began to falter and the sweat stood in beads upon his brow. Had he not been dead scarce half a moon ago he would have finished the man right then and there, he knew with a sick certainty deep in his mended gut. _And good riddance it would have been,_ he tried to comfort himself, though well he knew the consequences such vigilante justice might bring. He was a man of the Watch, _and not just any man of the Watch,_ he amended as he let his fist sink slowly against Bolton’s blood-spattered chest.  
  
It wasn’t until his own ragged breathing had slowed from a frenzied panting that the sound found its way to his ears again, the wail, and he knew it for what it was. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he looked down at the man under him, flinching briefly at the swollen, bloodied mess he had made of his face.  
Ramsay Bolton giggled. The sound was interwoven with small gasps of pain and feeble coughs, but it was unmistakable, almost exhilarated. His pale gaze shone out between swollen lids, the whites of his eyes shot with blood. He looked at Jon. And laughed.  
  
Jon attempted to retreat almost as quickly and instinctively as he had lunged at the prisoner. Flee, the wolf in him urged, suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of disgust and fear and wrongness, but behind him were Bolton’s legs, still securely bound to what remained of the chair, so that they formed a wall. Jon backed up against it, and doing so felt the man’s hardness press against him through his breeches, as swollen with blood as the bruises on his face.  
  
Just at that moment, as their eyes met once more and Jon felt his stomach lurch in protest, the door opened.  
“Ser,” one of the guards called, alarm in his tone as he stepped into the room and took in the scene before him. “We heard fighting noises from within –”  
Jon rolled off the injured man and scrambled to his feet, his face flushed as though he were ten years old again and had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. _I am Lord Commander,_ he reminded himself sternly, scanned the room briefly for his missing glove and then dismissed it, and straightened his shoulders once more. _I answer to no one._  
  
Behind him, Bolton launched into a fit of coughs and moans, drawing the guards’ attention to him.  
“He … attacked me ...” he croaked, pink foam bubbling from his bloody mouth. “And me bound and unarmed … he attacked me.”  
Jon felt his face redden further in a mixture of anger and shame. Bolton was right, he had attacked him, a prisoner, helpless and unarmed.  
“If Lord Commander Snow saw fit to strike you, I’ve no doubt you earned it,” the guard said sharply, but the look he gave to Jon was not kind. I thought better of you, brother, it said. Of you of all people. And for a long, heart-rending moment, Jon had the distinctive feeling he had shamed not only his post, but his father’s memory as well. He hardened himself to the thought.  
  
“Have him cleaned up and his injuries seen to,” he said with a curt nod as he began to walk towards the door. “Keep a close watch on him, but remove his shackles. I doubt he’ll be attempting an escape tonight.”  
And with that, he stepped back out into the noise and the cold air. He breathed a sigh of relief.


End file.
